


Pick It Up

by shinesurge



Category: Kidd Commander (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21963766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinesurge/pseuds/shinesurge
Summary: Ulrich has a drink with Monterey. It sucks.
Relationships: Bel Fortuna/Ulrich Weiss
Kudos: 1
Collections: Canon Novelizations





	Pick It Up

**Author's Note:**

> A Generous Novelization of Ulrich's after dinner drink with Monty, which was scattered across the back half of chapter 17 [starting here.](http://kiddcommander.com/?comic=awa-page-83)
> 
> bel's here so there's body horror and general Ulrich Weirdness lmao

Roulette City's decadent life of rapid growth, gilding and death and rebirth, needs constant sustenance; the city is ravenous. One of two things happens to people who spend a formative amount of time living there: they grow bored, become clever and unpalatable enough to stay out of reach, or they fall in love with the endless glitter and the smell of cheap booze and leap into the concrete jaws themselves. It is unwise to leave no room for edge cases, Ulrich knows, but the nature of Roulette City _also_ dictates that anyone without a polarized response to opulence never stays anyway. Lukewarm doesn't sell tickets, lukewarm is spit out.

Ulrich Weiss wears pattern print shirts over his concealed weapons, dark glasses over darker shadows. He pins a glass flower to his lapel each morning and painstakingly customizes ammunition rounds he fires from a flintlock pistol he constructed from antique watch parts. He is a man who opened his veins and took in as much neon light as his city would give him, an easy meal if ever there was one.

That is to say: Ulrich is a person who normally appreciates the sheer absurdity of a secret room behind a bookcase. He has, in fact, encountered several such things and although most of them had been the backdrop of traumatically stressful activities, he had at least been able to appreciate the effort at whimsy, at aesthetic.

This is relevant because he is looking at someone in a loud silk overshirt standing in front of a handsome bookcase, slid back at a touch to reveal a secret room, and all Ulrich can think is how tacky it all is. Tacky house, tacky tricks, tacky mayor. He doesn't know why, by all accounts it's a perfectly passable piece of illusory furniture. He doesn't have time to dwell on this mystery, though, because his own face is staring back at him, and his heart has frozen.

He hangs on to his composure only because the muscle that grips it has long since atrophied into place. The small room behind the bookcase is lit by a bright fire in the hearth, and that orange glow is reflected back at him from the sequins and steel of his own history covering the walls. Shelves and _shelves_ of things he'd forgotten about until being confronted with them; theater props, old costumes, photos of people and places that tear and twist in his ribcage. Weapons no one should be able to replicate, pins and tokens that must have been bought off employees from clubs he hasn't stood in for nearly a decade. Ticket stubs, embossed bar napkins, programs carefully preserved behind glass; even one of the carnations Bel had liked to toss into the audience at the end of a particularly risqué trick. The heart of the collection stares him down from above the fire, the irridescent blue feathers ashy in the complementary light, the lenses blazing gold. It can't possibly be _his_ (though if he weren't looking through the lenses of the real thing right now he might wonder if, somehow, Monterey had swiped it straight from the ship), but Ulrich thinks with a sick feeling that he can't be sure where the feathers had ended up after he'd plucked them. He had been rushed, he could have been careless. He hadn't considered anyone could want them.

Monterey is speaking, probably gesturing him inside anyway, but Ulrich can't help but get closer to the shrine. He needs to see, needs to find the details that tell him this man hasn't _actually_ stolen his life. Hateful eyes bear down on him from faces in photogtaphs and posters and masks, Bel and Cheshire both disgusted by the weak failure of a thing he's deteriorated into. He tries hard to keep his breathing even through the tightness in his chest.

He realizes, as he gets closer, that his disgust may not be only for himself. Bel is here too, the career that had damned her framed and hung by someone who had invaded her privacy, apparently done all he could to get close enough to Take. Bel would be furious, she would _hate_ Monterey, and so Ulrich feels the heat of her derision press behind his eyes. It drags against his own sick unease like jellyfish tendrils. He thinks he can taste lotus petals on the back of his tongue and he knows without looking she's looming behind him. He's grateful. He falls back into one of the enormous chairs in front of the fireplace. It's so much easier to be properly upset on Bel's behalf, on anyone else's but his own, but the instinctual panic welling up in him is still diluting everything else. Her hand is on his neck, impossibly, and her nails on his throat steadies him somewhat.

"Oh it's too _much_ isn't it?" the change in Monterey's voice manages to reach Ulrich through his turmoil. Unsure, lukewarm. Bel's disgust flares hot in his throat: for god's sake, if you're going to go to this kind of trouble at least stick to your fucking guns, for god's _sake._

Maybe it's just as well he's too overwhelmed to focus on a real response; he's going to have to wring a pleasant visit out of this somehow or any chance at getting Agatha out of Decodenn is going to disappear. He thinks he hears a few harsh words in Bel's voice, brutally compartmentalizes, schools himself. He can ignore the houselights in his eyes to entertain another tourist.

"No no, I just haven't seen some of this in a _long_ time." Ulrich manages a conversational tone. Monterey's face breaks into a relieved grin before he turns away towards the back wall. Ulrich is starting to catch his breath now, presses on with the small talk.

"It's impressive," he continues, "I did not realize anyone cared this much." Monty laughs in the mind-numbingly dull timbre that keeps dinner parties and awkward celebrity meets ticking along. 

"Well, if you feel the need to put on a show, _someone_ out there needs to see it." The way he says it sounds heavy in Ulrich's ear, a curious affectation he's noticed in Monty's speech the longer they'd talked. He's emphasizing a beat for an unseen audience, or there's a joke Ulrich should be in on. He also sounds physically further away than he had been. Ulrich turns in his chair to see what's happening.

"Ach," A stab of anxiety seizes in his chest and at this point he thinks hysterically of heart attacks. Monterey's pouring drinks from a bottle he's produced from a bar hidden behind a bulky wooden map of the Galed Peaks.

"I'm sorry, I don't drink actually." Ulrich says in a tone that completely masks his deep and abiding wish to be swallowed up by the earth. Monty waves him off as he shoves a lowball of something red and glittering into Ulrich's hand. Is that gold leaf? Tacky, tacky.

"I don't either!" Monterey chirps. "I just like something pretty to sip while I'm in here by the fire." he leans in closer and Ulrich fights not to jerk backwards. "Makes me feel important, hee hee." His eyes glint inhumanly in the firelight as he raises his glass to Ulrich's.

"Prost!" 

The mispronounced Deutsch makes Ulrich's lip twitch upward in a sneer, but he hides it behind his glass.

Monterey sits across from him and they chat as if one of them hasn't enslaved a person and as if they aren't sitting under the entire material sum of Ulrich's professional life. The study is miserably stuffy between the heat from the fireplace and the cloying sweet scent that pervades the estate. Breathing had been a chore since Ulrich arrived in the city, but the air in here is like hot wine, it sticks in his airways and gathers in the sweat on his skin. He doesn't know how Monterey can _stand_ it. A surreptitious glance confirms Monty isn't even flushed, shows no indication the heat from the fire reaches him. Ulrich secretly wonders what foundation he uses.

Ulrich knows he should be paying better attention to the conversation, Monterey's been going on about the usual topics and Ulrich needs to deliver his lines. He had never been quite famous enough for it to become commonplace, but he'd managed enough success that hobbyists who learned what he did for a living would corner him to "talk shop" fairly frequently. His peculiar profession of dressing up in pretty outfits and shooting firearms on a Roulette City stage had brought him eccentric hopefuls from a number of obscure obsessions, but their questions had always been nearly identical. Bel stands behind Monty's chair, rolls her eyes and blows smoke through her nose. She'd pretended better than he could, for fans, but she had hated it even more than Ulrich ever had. He thinks something is wrong with her, her face isn't quite right, but he can't make himself focus on the problem. Can't focus on anything, really, a sticky sluggish feeling clinging to his thoughts and slowing them down, macerating before he can make sense of them. He thinks it might be like it was before, at the restaurant, but he can't bring that to mind either. It's so _hot_ in here.

"It means so _much_ to hear you say that!" oh, what. 

Ulrich takes a deep breath to try and steady himself and is dismayed to find it accomplishes nothing. Bel eyes him viciously, and her face is _definitely_ different. It's missing pieces, it's stretching and melting, but dream logic makes these things seem normal enough, that _can't_ be what feels so Incorrect. He begins to apologize to her before he throttles himself, an awkward aborted sound coming from his throat that startles him awake somewhat. Bel rolls her eyes. They hover a little ways above their sockets, rooted by delicate green stems instead of sinew. Pretty Bel.

"....to do is entertain," Monty finishes a thought, Ulrich's crisis apparently going unnoticed, then perks up. "Oh! What did you think of the arena? It was SO amazing getting to put on a show for _you!"_ Monterey giggles and Ulrich averts his gaze.

"It was impressive," he rattles off in the practiced voice he uses when he's expected to perform. He thinks of water plants. "I've never seen a mech fight before, but I enjoyed myself."

Ulrich lets Monty's inane response wash over him while his eyes are snared by a particularly energetic shadow cast by the grate in the fireplace. For some reason he makes the association that that's what his heart looks like, his blood in his veins, twisting and jumping over the hideous area rug. He needs to pick it up, it shouldn't be on the floor. It would be embarrassing, uh, it's bad that it's there. Eventually Monterey's voice stops and Ulrich realizes he's supposed to say something.

"...Erm," his tongue feels clumsy in his mouth while he gropes around for his cue cards. "if you wanted to be an entertainer, then why are you..." 

"Running a city?" Monterey finishes charitably, and Ulrich nearly clarifies before he realizes Monterey isn't asking a question but finishing one; he'd forgotten to say the last bit out loud. His heart is still on the floor, how is he going to get it without drawing attention? He shoots Bel a pleading look and she continues to melt petulantly into the upholstery. He thinks that shouldn't be happening, either, he's making such an awful mess of everything.

"It _does_ seem like an odd choice for someone who grew up idolizing stage magicians, doesn't it?" If Monty is phased by Ulrich's, whole, _everything,_ he doesn't show it. Ulrich tries to sit up straighter and immediately sags against the cushions again, maybe he's losing his bones too. Maybe there are delicate little stems where _they_ should be too. Maybe he is full of flowers. He should drink more water. 

Monterey is _still_ talking.

"I suppose I just wanted a bigger stage...and this way I can put my other skills to use. I'm very proud of the work I've done with Decodenn." Ulrich snorts.

"Much more important than anything _I've_ done." he jokes, but it's not a joke, and he wishes Bel would come closer. His hands need to be doing something _right now_ and he automatically goes to take a drink before stopping himself. Monterey shifts in his periphery so Ulrich tears his eyes from the fire and pulls his face into what he hopes is a smile and a light-hearted laugh at his own remark, one of those where it wasn't really that funny but nobody laughed and it's awkward now so may as well do it himself god anything but silence.

He's said something wrong, but it's easily smoothed over and it's easy enough to make more smalltalk. Ulrich only realizes he's brought up Slow Six out loud when Bel snaps back into shape again just to slap him across the face. He hates when she tries to hurt him. Why is she so mad? Like Monty doesn't already know about every fucking club they played at what's the issue here. Ulrich grinds bitter flower petals between his teeth and loosens his tie while Monterey talks to him about luck and _god_ he wants a cigarette. Bel lights up a new one and they feel the smoke curl in their throat.

"Why did you quit?" Monty is asking, and they are so tired.

"Ach, you know..." Ulrich says, feeling pathetic. "Showbusiness is mean. Sometimes that luck fails you." His heart and his blood are spilled hopelessly all over the carpet and the wallpaper and glittering in Monterey's glass why won't Bel help him, stop this,

"Can I ask what happened with Bel?" Ulrich has nearly become one with the chair he's in, but manages to turn his head to look at Monterey. Bel is behind Monty, her back to them, smoky diamonds floating above her head. His cheeks burn, his skin hurts where it scrapes his clothes.

"It was so _sudden,"_ Monterey continues. His tone has changed again, he's much more focused in than Ulrich can remember seeing him all night. He realizes that this must be what Monterey brought him here for. "There are _so_ many pairs in stageshows, but there were none like you. You felt so _close_ when you performed." Monty makes a stupid little gesture with his hand, like he's embarrassed suddenly. "I'm sorry, it just. It wasn't a falling _out_ was it?" 

Bel turns to look at Ulrich then, mostly whole. The firelight glares cruelly in the silver scales on her cheek. 

"Sheee," Ulrich clears his throat and makes a pitiful attempt to sit up. "She had some other business to attend, and did not have time for the show any more." He's lied about this so many times he almost believes it himself occasionally, in stolen seconds when he isn't looking over his shoulder. "Our paths wound in different directions and we simply lost touch. I am sorry it is not more glamorous."

Monterey is staring at his eyes, he realizes when he drags his own up to meet the other gaze. He'd been watching Bel, and Monty had been watching him. Time is thick and runny like melted candy, here in this tacky tacky bookcase room, and Ulrich can't decide if it's wrong that Monty doesn't blink as long as he stares. Ulrich is trying to gather his marble-scatter thoughts enough to figure out how to hustle the conversation along a different track, but then:

"You two _scared_ someone." Monty says finally. 

It's _so_ hot in here. It's so _hot!!_

Ulrich pitches forward because he needs to be a ball, needs to keep his guts from spilling out any more than they already have, covers his eyes because he doesn't have his mask,

"What did you _do_ Ulrich?"

he hears himself make a wounded sound in the other room, far away from where he is now, tangled in smoke and green and trying savagely to hold together a house that's rattling apart

Monterey's glass shatters in his hand, snapping clean the tension. Ulrich coughs, Monterey swears. 

He raises his head from his hands slowly and watches Monty produce a handkerchief; later, Ulrich will realize he had done it a beat late, like Monty had forgotten it should be done. The glass shines on the rug, interrupts whatever pattern had upset Ulrich before, and he's thinks he may be slightly fucked up. He stares down at his hands and the image is trying to scroll upwards, like a jumping film reel. He wishes Phineas was here so he could hide behind her and immediately feels embarrassed about it.

"What did you say was _in_ that drink?" he asks shakily, still trying to get his hands to stay still. Tiny green leaves unfurl from his fingernails. 

"It hardly matters darling, you haven't drunk a drop." Monterey seems to have soured. The red is staining his pastel outfit, the rug, it's a terrible mess. Ulrich is already starting to slip back into whatever effect he'd been under before, he feels like he can't get hold of anything.

He sighs, finally looks up at Ulrich like he's just lost something, and Ulrich very suddenly realizes why Monterey's glamour isn't working for him. It isn't working for _Monty_ either. Everything in this room, everything in the house has the feeling of being borrowed, of ill-fitting skin draped over the wrong skeleton. 

Perhaps the feeling of being _stolen._

Bel coughs her smoker's cough somewhere close behind him and he fumbles fitfully for his glasses on the table because it is time to not be here anymore.

"...But it looks like your allergies are acting up," Monty says, like he's talking to a child. "there's a restroom down the hall, the green door, you can freshen up."

Ulrich manages a slurred thank you and heaves himself out of the chair, comes dangerously close to falling over. He stumbles back the way he came, the (taCKY) bookcase sliding open for him automatically.

The hallway seems darker than he remembers, covered with blue flowers that hurt his eyes. The shadows seem bigger, the vines seem to crawl towards him. His knees shake inward and he, he starts to sink to the floor but then Bel is there, finally decides to intervene goddammit. He leans heavily against her (she feels more like wallpaper than he thinks she should), and she half drags him down the rest of the corridor to the bathroom.

He slams the door shut and locks it, wants badly to wash his face but his legs finally quit on him and he sinks to the floor, his back to the garish deco door. The knees of Bel's suit pants are in front of him, slightly muddy, too big around her waifish limbs. He can smell the scent of her cigarettes, polished hardwood and burning lights. The bathroom behind her is dark and murky, the only light is spotted on Bel. He reaches out timidly and pinches the fabric of her clothes in his fingertips, unable to bear not touching her any longer. She kicks him lightly with her other foot.

"Get up." She says. 

"I don't feel well," he mumbles in what might be English. "can't I rest for a minute?"

"Nope." She responds sharply. He whines fitfully as she reaches under his arms to haul him to his feet. She shoves him in the direction of the sink, which is sticking out of a pile of vines that might be hands, or hideously long fingers. Ulrich braces his own hands against the sides of the sink and retches a little against the sicky sweet taste sitting on the back of his tongue. He needs to sneeze but it dies painfully up between his eyes. Bel taps a fingernail against a tissue box in a gilded metal case. 

He obediently takes one to wipe his nose, but when he blows the feeling of blood sliding from the back of his throat only makes him retch again. A strangled cough, more red spattering the leaves furled in the sink. Bel sighs and stubs out her cigarette on the counter. It leaves an ugly black mark on the clean porcelain that makes Ulrich uncomfortable in a useless part of his brain.

Bel considerately locks her door and 

steadies herself against the chipped-white wooden makeup stand, the ring light built into the mirror lighting around her like a halo in Ulrich's blurry vision. She's still in a t-shirt, not nearly ready; she hasn't even painted over the static breaks in her skin yet. Ulrich tells her they're going to be late.

"Speak English, you hick." Bel grinds out around the makeup brush between her teeth. Ulrich automatically leans in at a quick little gesture she makes with her hand, and she cradles his face gently while she does his eyeliner. It feels terribly intimate, the brush so close to his eyes, the practiced claw of her hand carefully holding his skin taut and keeping his hair back, her perfume and her cigarette smoke filling his nose. He breathes deep. He forgets what he meant to say.

"I like them," he says instead, because he'a allowed to say it here in Bel's pocket. She won't tell. Might make fun of him, a little, but she'd never tell. "I like them both." He can't see, Bel is still brushing his eyelids, but he knows she scowls at him.

"Great," she spits. Her hands are gentle on him. He thinks he tastes blood. "I don't care. You need to quit with this silverspeak shit." 

Another Ulrich spits in the sink, red that he doesn't see.

"No, I...it's good, it's _good,_ " he insists because it is. She's done with his makeup now but he keeps his eyes shut and he noses into her palm like a hound. She lets him. "Why?"

"Orders." she shrugs. He asks whose orders, and she tells him. He knows less than he did before but doesn't want her to leave, reaches a shaking hand up to trap hers against his face. Someone knocks on the dressing room door.


End file.
